Airwaves

Chapter One

He was stunning. Flawless. Absolutely traffic-stopping gorgeous.

“Hello, Emily,” he said—as if a sculptor’s perfection should speak and smile like warm flesh. He held out his hand. “I’m Colin Michaels.”

Inwardly Emily Erickson jumped, which must have been what jarred the heat loose to crawl up her neck.

“Hi,” she replied, smiling as she pushed forward her hand, and not sounding a bit like a candidate for an FM studio. “Thanks for seeing me today.”

“My pleasure. Sorry I’m late; I got tied up in production.” He claimed the other chair on the interrogatee side of general manager Sterling Barclay’s desk.

“We just got settled, ourselves,” Sterling assured him.

Colin nodded, then to Emily, “How was the drive?”

“Beautiful, thanks.”

It was only 180 miles from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho to Missoula, Montana, but it was light years between the patched-together studio of KBTS, K-93, and Diamond Country KDMD. She’d been awake into the early morning polishing her résumé, after Sterling had phoned to request it. Two days later her stomach still effervesced in disbelief—Diamond Country’s general manager liked the way she sounded.

She studied the portion of the station she’d heard first. Sterling Barclay was as tall as he sounded over the phone, and he sat his executive chair as if it were a throne, forearms resting on leather and palms curled over the wood accents. His cheeks were jowly and his black hair was threaded with silver, but his liquid brown eyes danced with a youthful mischief that said it was no imposition to attend to station business on a Saturday morning. He’d be here anyway, and besides, he was already sold—he’d invited her here. It was Colin Michaels, the station’s PD—program director—she had to convince.

She turned to the younger man who supervised the broadcast, as opposed to the sales, side of the station, and who at the moment held her future in his hands. He sat in the chair beside hers, one ankle set on the opposite knee, elbow on the desk, fingers braced in an arch over his coffee mug. The mug didn’t carry the Diamond Country logo, but only orange and gold block letters on a beige background, and for another station, KMLA. And the left hand arched over it wore no wedding ring—she definitely looked—but its owner sure was beautiful to look at.

Emily let her gaze lift from the dimples so prominently pressed into his cheeks to follow the strands of hair that were luxurious in both their thickness and color, so brown it was almost black. Parted off center, it lifted a little before it swept back in shorter strands over his ear, then fell in lush volume, length, and gentle curl over his collar. He didn’t tug creases into his blue-and-white Oxford, but neither did the shirt hang shapeless. He apparently didn’t spend all his time at the station; it took more than standing at a microphone to produce bulk like that.

Only his eyes moved as he looked from the cup to Sterling, then to Emily. Their intensity, in mood as well as hue—navy blue and rimmed in dark lashes—threatened to puddle her blood, but this was a job interview, so she sat a little straighter for the sparring ahead, and prayed.

Make it okay. Daddy’s wrong. I can handle this. I’ll show him. I’ll show You. I’ll show everyone.

“You’re résumé is a little thready,” Colin said, his voice all-radio, all-professional, with a tone that promised perfect diction, inflection, and levels. “But your presence is strong—that is, your delivery is good, you’re creative, and your voice carries well.”

How does he know all that?

“I’ve heard your show,” Colin added, as if he’d heard her thoughts.

Emily looked to Sterling, who explained, “I took the liberty of taping portions of it when I was in Coeur d’Alene. It’s so much more like the real you than a spec tape you record yourself.”

“You have nice pipes.” This from Colin. “Good female voices—ones that have the depth to carry over a dusty speaker in the back of a muffler shop—are rare. But are you teachable?”

“How intelligent would I be if I said no?” Emily replied.

For a second Colin merely stared. Then he burst into a full-dimpled chuckle. “Not very.”

“Could you clarify what you mean by teachable?”

His stare shifted to his mug, and he narrowed his eyes, considering. “You have the personality for it, but it’s obvious Kyle hasn’t worked with you.”

“You know Kyle?” she asked, referring to Kyle Larkin, her general manager at K-93.

Colin nodded. “Oh, sure.”

The bedroom community called radio knew no geographic barriers such as Lookout Pass on the Idaho-Montana border.

“I worked with Kyle in a little AM station in Green River, Wyoming,” Sterling added.

Of course. Sterling Barclay had the voice, knew how to say words. He wore his graying hair as if it should come from a bottle, filled a green golf shirt as if it were tailored, and spoke with a command that said he was accustomed to being listened to.

While Kyle Larkin had also elevated himself to general manager, he was still at a not-quite station. He drove a blue AMC Pacer that looked as if he’d rescued it from a car crusher, scuffed about on the hems of his trousers, and admitted he had a face for radio. He didn’t golf. Whatever it took to go further than where he was, Kyle didn’t have it.

Aloud Emily said, “You worked with Kyle? When was this?”

Sterling rocked back in his chair. “Must have been the sixties. You weren’t even born—but you don’t have to respond to that. I’m not asking your age, you understand.”

Emily laughed. The distinguished exterior and that dignified name carried no warning. It was the glint in his eyes that gave him away; Sterling’s sense of mischief would find like company around a cowpoke campfire.

“I’m twenty-one, you didn’t ask, and I’m not accusing you of discrimination,” she replied.

To which, Sterling smiled. “Good. Just wanted to make sure we understood each other.” Then he looked to Colin as if to say he was finished with the detour.

Emily’s thoughts raced. Don’t make me go back, begging for a job I just quit. Please give this to me...I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me...Whatever things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.

Colin plunged right in. “You rattle around, Emily. You aren’t consistent, but I can fix that, if you’re willing to listen and work on it.”

Hey, if it’s up to me, bring on the W4 form, insurance application, and key to the front door.

Aloud she said, “Tell me more” and crossed her legs—and tipped her coffee! It spilled. Hot!

Emily stifled most of her squeal before righting the mug. She pulled her jeans away from her flesh and looked to see if Colin and Sterling had noticed—as if they wouldn’t.

“Are you all right?” they asked in unison.

“Yes.” No. The cup was dripping on the floor. Where to set it? Sterling’s desk? Not there. Let it drip on the carpet? Not that, either. Then Colin’s large palm thrust out to catch the drip.

“No, it’s all right,” he said when she started to move the cup away.

Their eyes met; his held kindness.

“Why don’t you go to the ladies’ room? I’ll take care of this,” he said, reaching for the cup as she breathed her thanks and leaped to her feet. As she reached the door, he added, “Turn right and follow the hall to the back of the building.”

Her leg burned, though not nearly as much as her cheeks. She pressed a wet paper towel to her leg to ease the scalding, but there was no fix for the jeans that had been sky blue and so tidy below her rich green sweater. Now they were sky blue with a brown spot resembling a map of Brazil above the right knee.

When she didn’t dare be gone any longer, she treaded the carpeted hallway, soaking in the lonely calm of a Saturday morning radio station; no lights, empty chairs, and silent phones. The stereo speakers that seemed to be hidden throughout the station sounded forth with a classy Diamond Country jingle—K-93’s were tacky, nothing like this—to one hard hit on a snare drum, followed by a flurry of guitars, drums, and a melodious lead line that could be the best rock on radio if it weren’t for the twangy slide of select notes.

At the doorway, Emily paused to draw a breath, compose her features, and smooth her sweater over her hips.

“Are you okay?” Colin asked, glancing at her leg.

“Yes. Thank you.” She reclaimed her seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sterling told her. “We’re just glad you’re all right.”

Her mug was on the desk, a white square of paper towel folded beneath it, and two packets of sugar beside it. The mug was full to the brim.

“We thought we’d give you another chance,” Colin said. “It’s obvious you take cream, but I wasn’t sure about the sugar.”

Laughter—from relief as much as mirth—burst from her.

“Think you can handle it?” Colin asked.

“I think so,” she replied with grave solemnity.

Colin returned to his relaxed position. “Good. Now, how’s your production?”

Back to business, and if it were going to fall apart, this was where it would happen. She wouldn’t lie. Not for a job. Not for anything. She was at least that good a Christian. She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “Virtually nonexistent.”

His left eyebrow twitched. “Define that.”

“Three.” It was humiliating; three lousy commercials.

“Did you mix them?”

“No. Kyle ran the recording equipment.”

Colin sipped his coffee. “At least I won’t have to break you of any bad habits.” The anxiety must have shown on her face, for he shook his head in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. You probably lost the work to the receptionist, because she was handy and already on the clock.”

He didn’t like it, that was plain in the sigh that hovered in his voice. The frustration made him grow more human than the picture of perfection he made, catching the sunlight that spilled over his shoulder as if he were waiting for the portrait artist to arrive.

“What shift do you have in mind for me?”

“Weekdays, six to eleven, with some production thrown in,” Colin replied.

“The same shift I had at K-93,” Emily said, to which he nodded. He seemed to know all, yet her résumé wasn’t anywhere in sight. “I put the station to bed,” she continued.

“And attended classes the next day,” Colin added, proving the thread of her thoughts. “Will you attend the university?” he asked, referring to Missoula’s campus.

She held the urge to wince, to run, to fold in on herself. No more demands, no more responsibility, no more life-defying sameness. It was time to have a rent payment of her own, to add her name to the phone book, to accept a date without checking the plans already made for her—though he’d never see it. He hadn’t even realized how serious she was until she began dropping makeup, shampoo, and earrings into a box, and carrying hangers of clothes to the car. The haste hadn’t been part of the plan—not without some farewell—but he’d pushed it.

Darn it, Daddy.

One-hundred and eighty degrees, and one-hundred and eighty miles from all that came before, that’s what she’d have now—except church. That could stay, even if she did dirty the pew she occupied.

Emily said only, “No, I’m afraid I couldn’t betray North Idaho College by attending one of its rivals.”

The men laughed—and laughing, Colin revealed his only flaw; his right front tooth rocked on its side and overlapped its partner. It should have been an imperfection, except it was slight and...cute.

Colin’s laughter rolled to a stop. “Good. That’s the third time you’ve laughed, and it’s consistently pleasant.”

Heat flushed through her. Her laugh?

“Do you know Country music?” he continued.

“No.”

His eyes fell closed for a second. “Are you always so frank?”

Truthful?

“Yes.”

That eyebrow twitched again, while Sterling chuckled behind his steepled fingers, as if she were not only his discovery but his creation.

Colin’s dimples peeked from his cheeks. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Do you like it?”

“Country music? I don’t know. I haven’t really listened.”

“Think you could learn?”

From the lobby, the tune was catchy, the harmony rich, and the beat undergirding it, strong. It was just so...twangy.

It was also freedom.

“Watch me,” she told him.

Navy eyes studied her, then Colin gave Sterling a minuscule nod, while the ruler over all this grinned a little wider.

Colin shifted in his chair. “Actually, Emily, the format is the least of your worries. I’m going to work you pretty hard. The songs are shorter in country than they are in a Top 40 format, and the intros are ghastly quick. It will move fast, and we carry double the commercial load of K-93.” He paused. “Did you know this is a part-time position?”

Anything—everything—he’d spoken before, danced compared to the impact of the words that had just fallen from his mouth. These had the power to take it all—the apartment, the food, the release—before she’d even fingered it.

“How many hours is it?” she asked.

“Thirty a week. No benefits. Still interested?”

She stared at the corner of Sterling’s desk, mentally multiplying numbers. The hourly rate Sterling had mentioned was better than minimum wage, more than what K-93 had paid, but not by much. What a lie, those carefree career-girl images portrayed in sit-coms and magazine ads. Should have squirreled more money away. Her attention drifted to the mug, whose logo matched the sign towering over the parking lot—KDMD in mirror-silver on a navy background, with a cowboy hat hanging off the left stand of the K.

She turned to Colin, head-on. “I need more money than that.” Before he could shame her into silence, she pressed on. “I know you’re going to have to spend time with me. You already said that, but I’m going to be working just as hard. Probably harder. How about you give me a raise...later...when I’m where you want me to be?”

Colin set his elbow on the desk and his cheek on his fingers, while she held her breath. “You mean, like a probation period?” he asked.

Praise God, he hadn’t said no.

“Yes. A probation period.”

It was a moment before he nodded. “We could do that. Let’s say...three months, then we’ll renegotiate. How’s that?”

She’d come to win a full-time job, but her clothes were already in the car.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take it.”